the a team
by Momochi-MSL
Summary: it's too cold outside, for angels to fly —Ichigo, Rukia


**an: completely and utterly inspired by the beautiful song _The A Team_ by Ed Sheeran. if you haven't heard it, i'd definitely recommend listening to it and or just listening to all his songs because they are awesome!**

**anyways, this surprisingly short prologue, i guess, is inspired by the video as well. i figured it'd be easier to write, since most of the idea comes from the video, but it still took me ages to finally finish and even then, i feel like i'm missing something or it just doesn't flow properly. **

**other than that, i hope it catches some of your interest!**

**disclaimer: i do not own _Bleach _or the song _The A Team _by Ed Sheeran**

* * *

_Where am I?_

She cracks open an eye, wincing slightly at the lazy afternoon sun peeking past a blanket of thick gray clouds above. Grumbling quietly, half asleep, she shifts sluggishly from her back to her right side, dozing fast, oh so close to dreaming sweet dreams again.

And as she sets her head in place, a frown pulls at the corners of her lips, her forehead crinkling in confusion at the hardness pressing into her cheek, the cold air prickling through the thin layer of clothing on her person and at the all around discomfort of her new position. Wrapping each arm tightly around her midsection, she opens both dulled amethyst eyes and sees yellowing grass and large buildings.

She quirks a brow.

_I'm at_... Ever so slowly, like an old withered man, she wills her body up from her temporary bed, grimacing at the soreness in both her shoulders and back. Everyday joggers and commuters, deadened trees and a few lingering birds, open fields and the never ending sky... "The park?" she questions, throat dry and hoarse.

A swift breath of wind passes, ruffling her inky locks and shaking the bare branches. She wonders, letting out a long, tired yawn, her eyes moistening up as she swallows down much needed spit, when she stopped shivering.

* * *

A loose, off-white stained tank top, holed up black tights, a long wool trench coat, and frayed jean shorts make up her outfit for the day (or last night?). Her short-heeled boots click on the slabs of concrete, her tired legs moving half as fast as they should.

She's tired, always tired.

And with no particular destination in mind, she languidly trudges through the crowded streets, making a left here, taking a right there, unsure of where she'll end up for the day. Sometimes, she crosses unknown parts of town, with shiny new sights to see and discovers odd, ugly, beautiful things. But often times, she circulates familiar areas, locations she knows like the back of her hand; safe places, if you will.

She walks, with her head held at the perfect angle of sidewalks and chins, very particular to avoid any eye.

_It's easier this way,_ she tells herself.

Because she can do without seeing disappointed glances from older women, lewd expressions from tactless men, mocking smirks from rowdy teens, and cavalier glimpses from girls thinking they're the shit.

It's easier, staring at the bland, generic street underneath her feet, than looking into questioning, angry, disgusted, uncaring, or worried eyes. Eyes that can haunt her every step, every action—

She stops, pats down her coat pockets and whispers softly, "I'm hungry."

No use dwelling on inevitable things.

* * *

She sits propped against the scratchy gray wall, eyes glassy and unfocused, staring straight ahead at the brightly lit television screens. Her arms snake tighter around her shins, pressing her knobby knees harder against her chest. She half listens as the delicate sounds of women's heels click on the sidewalk, the strong and heavy footfalls of men pass, and the squeaky sounds of sneakers brush on by, catching a few thrown out sentences, always only hearing half the conversation.

"—you didn't hear it from me, but I heard that they are divorcing because—"

"—those files better be in my office, first thing in the morning, or it'll be my ass—"

"—yeah, she's got some hot tits, but have you seen—"

"—so I told him that if he was only interested in sleeping with me, then he could just—"

Strange, intriguing conversations she shouldn't be listening too, or for that matter, have any interest in. Because at the end of the day, she'll never know why they're divorcing, what files need to be there on time, which girl has a better chest, what she'll do to her boyfriend if he continues behaving the way he is. She'll never know.

Though, it is fun coming up with her own ideas.

She grins like a fool at the made up images playing in her head—an unfaithful husband screaming bloody murder for being caught, a businessman throwing a fit after getting fired, two nicely endowed females slapping the appalling boys for their piggish words, and the woman landing a solid kick to the groin for her horny boyfriend.

_What stupid people,_ she thinks, resting her chin on top her right kneecap, uneven nails biting through her fishnets. Because then, an out of place thought passes, her eyelids growing heavy, her once smiling lips pulling into a halfhearted frown.

How long, she wonders, had it been since she last spoke with anyone? Had a meaningless conversation with a friend about the weather, or badmouthed fellow acquaintances, or hell, just talked about how much life sucked in general? How long had it been since her conversations turned from lengthy discussions to careless words spit out in the quiet of night, often times, encouraged by her ever-changing partners lying heavily on top? How long had it been since she had last spoken _with_—

She shakes her head, side to side, as if the very thought would fly away like a bird. "No," she whispers softly, closing her eyes tight at the burn behind her lids.

* * *

She shuts the door with a soft click, taking a few steps toward the only sink in the room. Her eyes drift from the oval shaped mirror to her own dirtied hands, slowly twisting the tap and watching with mild interest as the cool water rushes out, never once glancing at her reflection.

She doesn't need a mirror to know she looks like hell.

Splashing the cold water on her skin, she ignores the numbness in her hands as she scrubs and rubs at the hardness on her eyelashes, the barely there liner around her eyes, the half gone blush staining her cheeks, the chapped skin on her lips and at any powder left on the rest of her face. She rubs harder, erasing all signs of tears and snot, even to the point of clawing at her ever reddening skin when she finally pulls away.

"Are you really me?" she asks, amused.

A face she once knew, recognized, now completely different and unfamiliar—eyes, once a unique shade of violets and blues, now a lifeless color of indifference; hair, once long and shiny, now tangled and knotted, ratty; skin, a once healthy glow of pale, now papery and patchy, ugly.

_Guess I'm forgetting myself,_ she muses, wiping the trails of water with the back of her hand.

Digging deep within her left pocket, she pulls several compacts and sticks of eyeliner from her coat. Laying each item carefully around the sink, she begins her routine of creating an oh so familiar mask for the night. She dusts her cheeks in white, lines her eyes in black, paints her lips with red—

Several knocks on the door startle her. "Hello? Are you done in there?" a somewhat muffled yet desperate voice calls behind the wooden door.

Glancing in the mirror one last time, she gives a shrug and quickly stuffs her prized possessions back in her coat.

"Good enough," she comments offhandedly, wiping the excess lip stain off the corner of her mouth.

* * *

Lip against lip, tongue fighting against tongue, hands caressing, pulling, touching against foreign skin.

She moans seductively as his rough hands travel the length of her body, squeezing gently at the soft curves of her hips, lightly grazing her breasts, and exploring her most intimate of areas.

He growls against her neck, biting the soft flesh lovingly, whispering hotly, "Damn, you are so hot."

Running her fingers through his chestnut brown locks, pressing his sweat-covered face closer against her, she breathes, "Don't leave a mark."

Minutes pass in a heated blur, with low grunts and delicate sighs, whisper soft moans and satisfactory groans escaping the two tangled in sheets.

And now he sleeps, thoroughly exhausted, his much heavier, out of shape body rolling to the side, snagging most of the thin blanket along with him. Tilting her head ever so slightly to the right, eyes catching the bright red numbers glowing from the digital clock, she sighs softly, soundlessly slipping off the too firm mattress in search of her clothing in the darkened room.

* * *

**interesting? please, please, please let me know what you think! **


End file.
